


Skant Supply

by ConceptaDecency



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bottom Elim Garak, Cardassians with tails, Fluff and Humor, Garak has a tail, Humor, Humour, M/M, New Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, Skant, Skant uniforms, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25156831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConceptaDecency/pseuds/ConceptaDecency
Summary: Garak's new sartorial choices inspire lunchtime quickies with Doctor Bashir in the Infirmary Supply Room. What could possibly go wrong?(See also in the end notes some links to some incredible art of Julian and Garak in skants!)
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 50
Kudos: 161





	Skant Supply

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_last_dillards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_last_dillards/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Skantily Clad](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24772855) by [the_last_dillards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_last_dillards/pseuds/the_last_dillards). 



> Inspired by the_last_dillards' [Skantily Clad](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24772855). You don't need to read it to understand this story, but you should anyway!
> 
> References to Cardassian reproduction and sex adapted from [Speculative Cardassian Reproductive Xenobiology](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719479%E2%80%9D%20rel=) by tinsnip.

“Now, now, Doctor.” Garak gives a reproachful slap to the elegant fingers that are so inelegantly scrabbling at his neck fastening. “It stays on.”

“Seriously?” The doctor’s voice, deep and heavy with want, nonetheless manages to sound dismayed.

“ _Seriously_ , my dear. We’ve spoken about this. The beauty of the garment is that its removal is completely unnecessary for our purposes.” 

“Well, I suppose removing it’s not strictly _necessary_.” Bashir’s eyes scan Garak’s body hungrily. “But, Garak, this is the third time we’ve shagged and I sort of thought...third time’s the charm?”

Whatever that means.

“No charm, I’m afraid,” says Garak, but that is untrue. At the moment there is an immeasurable amount of charm in the supply room in which he and the doctor have concealed themselves, and it’s all (barely) contained in the person of one Julian Subatoi Bashir. Only a dangerous amount of personal charm could have coaxed Garak into a supply room. Even this one, the largest and most spacious in the Infirmary, with a ceiling so high that a ladder is necessary to access the top shelves. It’s the doctor’s charm and nothing else that currently has Garak perching, tail extended for balance, legs spread, wet and dripping and _waiting_ , on a dusty, neglected backup power generator that really isn't meant to support the weight of a full-grown Cardassian. And if he’s being completely honest with himself, isn’t it (at least in part) the doctor’s charm that led him to don the garment in question in the first place? Starfleet calls it a _skant_ , a sort of short one-piece that covers very little and to Cardassian eyes looks half-finished. It’s certainly something Garak would never in his life have considered wearing, if not for the certainty that Doctor Bashir would really, _really_ like it. 

It’s all true. And regrettably, Garak knows that Bashir knows this on some level.

What Garak hopes Bashir doesn’t know is that if he insisted, _really_ insisted, Garak would slip the skant over his head with no further argument. Would allow the doctor to slice it off, if he really wanted to, with those bandage cutters he keeps (in case of serious tech failure) on the shelf by the door. Bashir could have his way and leave Garak filthy and used and naked in public, if he only pushed.

Good thing Garak is a practiced bluffer. 

“But I still haven’t seen what you look like out of that skant.” The doctor’s buttery whisper into Garak’s ear, and then the application of his clever mouth to Garak’s left neck ridge, just where it disappears under the Starfleet-issue thermal turtleneck, very nearly melt Garak’s reserve.

Garak swallows and wonders if Bashir knows how close he is to getting his wish. Primly, he pulls the neck of his uniform up as far as it will go. “Doctor, I assure you there won’t be a third ‘shag’ if you keep insisting on removing my clothing.” He uses the Standard word because he knows it is a little bit ribald and that that excites the doctor. “And besides,” Garak squeezes his thighs, which are on either side of the doctor’s slim hips, and grinds himself into the doctor’s eager erection, “I thought you liked the skant.”

This time it’s Bashir who has to take a moment to centre himself before answering. “I do, Garak. I do,” he says, as if it hasn’t been patently obvious from the start. He picks at the hem and pushes it up so it's nearly around Garak's waist, exposing Garak's underwear, a regulation bikini brief in Operations Gold. “It’s just that I want to see more of _you_ , too." He hooks a finger into the hem of the underpants and draws them down a little. He’s cautious, but _this_ has been allowed before. "I get to see you in the skant all the time these days.” 

Indeed. Garak had been extremely irked when the order had first come: as a contractor with no uniform of his own, he was required to wear a Starfleet uniform if he was to continue working for Starfleet. _Sorry, Garak, nothing I can do about it,_ Sisko had shrugged. Garak had had his suspicions. Surely if he’d tried hard enough there would have been _something_ Sisko could have done. But the Captain is very busy, these days. They all are. And so after a few more perfunctory complaints, Garak had chosen the least offensive style of uniform. At least the skant allows for modest covering of the base of his tail. 

(His opinion on the skant has improved considerably since then.)

“My dear Doctor,” Garak begins, but is quieted as Bashir bites down a second time, harder now, and then worries the collar of the skant with his teeth. It’s pushed down again. Bold. 

“I know you don’t want to risk being caught naked in public, but I’ve offered you my bed,” Bashir murmurs, and creeps his hand inside Garak's briefs to stroke the wet seam of his _ajan_. “You’d look great in my sheets. They’re nice. I got them from someone who really knows his fabrics.” 

Garak spreads his legs a little further. “Mmmmm,” he purrs into the doctor’s ear. The vibrations reverberate through him, from his wet and throbbing slit all the way up into his throat and back again. “How fortunate for you to know such a person.” The sheets were gifts, chosen with Bashir’s comfort and complexion in mind. Garak has presented several sets to him, on various human and Cardassian gift-giving occasions, both of them pretending that multiple sets of high-quality bed linen are perfectly normal, platonic gifts from one friend to another. Of course Garak fully intends to someday see Bashir’s lanky body in nothing but the euphotic blue Vaikiaan silk sheets he embroidered painstakingly over three weeks. Or perhaps the ivory Egyptian cotton ones with the cutwork floral pattern he managed, with considerable effort, given the distance, to order from Earth. But there’s no need to hurry these things along. The anticipation of properly exploring each other’s bodies wrapped in those sheets is something to be savoured, not rushed. “But my dear, what would people say if they realised I was regularly spending my evenings in your quarters?”

The room is too dark and the doctor’s face too closely nestled into Garak’s neck to be seen, but still Garak knows Bashir has rolled his eyes (and with no interruption to the exploration of Garak's _ajan_ with his curious fingers, the clever thing). “Garak, if you were really worried about station gossip you wouldn’t be in this supply room with me. It’s far more likely that someone’ll catch us in here while I’m balls deep in you.”

Charming. Garak wonders if that little expression is as artless in Standard as the Universal Translator has rendered it in Kardasi. Probably. “Speaking of which, you promised me a ‘lunchtime quickie in the supply room’, Doctor, and by my reckoning we’ve been here nearly five minutes already and you aren’t even close to ‘balls deep’.” He presses his _ajan_ into the doctor's hand such that one finger penetrates the lips and slides neatly into Garak's wet cloaca. The doctor could stop it but it goes in up to the knuckle, and seamlessly the doctor’s hand motion shifts to slow, measured in-and-out brushes. "I'd hardly call this _quick_ ," Garak says, nearly breathless at the new stimulation.

Garak can feel the smile against his neck. The doctor does enjoy hearing Garak use these profane Standard expressions. “Okay, Garak, if you insist. But turn around,” he growls. “I want you from behind.” 

Garak allows himself a fond smile that he knows Bashir can't see. He adores when the doctor tries to dominate him in the bedroom — or the supply room, as the case may be. He’s just so ineffectual at it. Like a barely-grown riding hound pup, still figuring out its true strength, attempting to snarl an elder pack member into submission but only really managing to yap. The thing is, there’s no reason he should be like this. Garak’s seen Bashir flex his authoritative muscles when the situation calls for it. He’s the CMO of the station, and a commanding officer, and a very passionate advocate for science, justice, and all he holds dear, after all. He’s stood up to Dukat, to Sisko, and even to Major Kira. He's even managed to cow Garak into following medical orders once or twice, so why he can’t muster that steel when he’s about to bend Garak over a generator and fuck him like an animal Garak has no idea. But it just makes the doctor all the more dear to him. 

Garak decides to let the doctor have this one, and turns obediently, if awkwardly, and is soon splayed out over the generator with a little help from the doctor's capable hands. Those hands. They are steadying, and helpful, and not at all rough or domineering, but thinking about Bashir's gifted hands and what they can do prompts a rush of wetness between Garak's legs, and accordingly he spreads them, tilts his hips, and lifts his tail, signals of receptivity which make the doctor gasp.   
  
"God, Garak," Bashir says, and his hands tighten on Garak's hips, fingers digging deliciously into the ridges, pushing the skant even further up. The doctor, an unrepentant xenophile (has he ever even been with a member of his own species? Even the ex-fiancée he left behind on Earth was half Vulcan), has always been extremely fond of Garak's tail, that much has been obvious from the start. But since Garak's taken to wearing the skant, there have been many instances where he could have embarrassed Bashir by mentioning that his eyes were up _here_ , please, if his dear doctor didn't mind. However, so far it hasn't suited Garak to do this. Instead he's taken to simply flaunting it, holding his tail up, when around the doctor, a little bit more erect than is strictly correct in polite company (holding one's tail too straight and too high is considered an invitation to speculate as to what is directly below it, a fact that Garak has made certain Bashir is well aware of). 

The skant has been rucked up nearly to Garak's waist. It'll require a bit of smoothing before Garak's fit to be seen in public again, but that's hardly at the forefront of his mind at this precise moment. All the doctor needs to do now is push Garak's Operations Gold briefs to one side and he will have full access to Garak's _ajan_ , with which he can do as he pleases. As they both please. And he _knows_ this! But Garak hasn't felt Bashir's hands move from his hips. 

"Doctor, are you waiting for an engraved invitation?" he cajoles, looking over his shoulder and thrusting his tail up just a little more. _This_ is all the invitation Bashir'll be getting, and it should be quite enough.

"Eh?" The doctor is staring, slack-jawed, at the point where tail meets bottom. Well, how flattering. "No..."

Garak laughs. He wraps his tail around Bashir's waist and pulls him closer. "It's your move, my dear, and I'd still like to have my mid-day meal on time, if you don't mind."

"Sorry." Bashir is grinning sheepishly now, the spell cast by Garak's apparently irresistible tail broken. With one hand, _finally,_ he brushes aside the panel of Operations Gold fabric to uncover Garak's _ajan_. He plunges an eager finger in, then two, in and out, keeping Garak pleased while he fumbles at his absurd jumpsuit with the other hand. He’ll need to wriggle out of the top half completely in order to free himself enough to complete the deed. 

"Darling, you'd already be _balls deep_ in me if you didn't insist on that impractical uniform design." Garak caresses the doctor's clothed buttock with his tail, teasing his crack with the tip.

"It's quite practical, actually, for most of the functions of my job," Bashir retorts. Ah, there it is. The cheeky wit that attracted Garak in the first place. Well, the second place. Or the third. Frankly Bashir's hopelessly endearing awkwardness and stunning beauty had been second and first, respectively.

"It hardly seems practical right now," Garak pouts, to see what Bashir will say.

"Fucking you, _my dear,_ is hardly part of my job description, though, is it?" The doctor's voice has deepened and he is mock-chiding Garak for his petulance. Perfect. Garak feels a frisson of desire bolt through him, and as Bashir has finally freed enough of himself from his uniform (the top half of which is now bulkily draped from his waist), Garak lifts his tail high again, and rests it on the doctor's shoulder, guiding the doctor as the doctor guides himself into Garak, one hand on his cock, the other holding the briefs out of the way. The fabric pulls at Garak’s leg a little as Bashir eases in, but Garak is not too worried about stretching. Starfleet-issue fabric has many deficiencies, but lack of durability is not one of them. 

"But you're so good at it, Doctor," says Garak, caressing the doctor's beautiful unadorned neck with his tail. Garak may have a few xenophilic tendencies himself. He’s not ashamed to admit it.

Bashir pushes all the way in and Garak gasps a little louder than he means to. 

“Shhhhhh,” Bashir murmurs, and returns one hand to Garak’s hips. The other grasps Garak's tail at the base, where it joins his back. A caress, then a moment to steady himself, and the doctor begins a gentle rocking. He is thick and hot and fills Garak utterly. "Okay?" he asks, sweetly but quite unnecessarily. He should know it's more than okay by the low thrum that's started in Garak's chest, and which Garak _knows_ he can sense.

"Yesssssss," Garak hisses. It's taking effort to keep his voice down. It will be gratifying, eventually, to take this to Bashir's bedroom. A long, leisurely session with the doctor in a place where Garak can allow himself the full range of coital vocalisation is certainly something he looks forward to. As is the doctor’s reaction when he realises how much Garak has been holding himself back during their little liaisons in the supply room. Dear Doctor Bashir reacting to things has been one of Garak’s greatest pleasures in his exile. Though it pales in comparison to the pleasure he is currently experiencing.

The doctor chuckles low in his throat and Garak realises he’s been thrumming quite sonorously as the doctor’s been gently, languidly fucking him. Garak makes a concerted effort to stop, but just then the doctor begins thrusting harder. His fingers dig into Garak’s hip and tail ridges and his cock is stroking deliciously against Garak’s un-everted _prUt_. Bashir is not holding himself back now. He’s promised Garak a quickie, and a quickie Garak shall have. Garak is not entirely able to contain his thrumming, even though he is now aware he’s doing it. He can only keep it low and quiet.

The thrusting intensifies. Garak, as well as the generator over which he is bent, are rocking dangerously, but the motion is causing Garak's chuva to rub against the fabric of the skant. Thrills rush between his legs from the sensitive organ and even though he could still the motion by planting his feet a little more solidly on the storeroom floor, he does not. The generator _could_ go crashing to the floor due to the doctor's vigorous pistoning, thus alerting the entire Infirmary staff to their presence in the supply room, but assuming they finish in approximately the same time it has taken them in their previous two couplings, it probably won't. 

“Garak..?” Bashir gasps. He is a true gentleman, if Garak has correctly understood one meaning of that complicated Standard term. He is clearly ready, and they are in a hurry, but he’s not going to allow himself completion until he’s certain Garak is satisfied. Garak cannot claim to have ever had a more thoughtful lover, and he wonders if all humans are like the doctor, prioritising their partner’s pleasure above their own.

“Nearly there, my dear,” Garak manages. Bashir complies with renewed vigour in his thrusting, and soon Garak is over the edge. As the tension bursts within him, taking over his body, he dares to allow a little moan, so that the doctor knows he may now seek his own release. For good measure Garak tightens his cloacal muscles around the doctor’s cock. A few more thrusts and Bashir answers with a guttural cry of his own, and his hands clench on Garak’s body. A final wave of gasps and thrusts, far deeper and faster but then slowing, and Bashir’s grasp slackens. He exhales and collapses, limp, onto Garak’s back. Garak plants his feet on the floor to steady the two of them (and the generator) as the doctor regains his composure. It's a curious weakness, this helpless moment directly after orgasm. It certainly says something about why humans are so trusting, though Garak hasn’t yet decided what that may be.

The doctor's vulnerable state puts Garak on hyper-alert, and so despite his sense of hearing being generally inferior, he is the first to notice the approaching footsteps.

Garak tenses, ready for action. The doctor has locked the door from the inside, yes, but he did not use his top-level authorisation as CMO to do so. That would look too suspicious. Thus there are certain Infirmary staff who could override the lock. Garak runs through his options. There is only so much he can do with the doctor lying on top of him, and in any case he'd prefer not to move until he's able to clean himself up. Garak has learned that humans produce copious amounts of semen, which is prone to dripping at the least convenient times, and there’s a not-insignificant risk he’ll have to deal with a tell-tale wet spot on his uniform if he rolls out from under the doctor now. However, if necessary he will take the chance. 

The footsteps do not pass, but stop at the door. On top of him, Bashir breathes in sharply and makes a sudden jump to his feet. Luckily in doing so he doesn’t jostle any of the shelves or make any noise, but Garak makes a mental note to suggest the doctor improve his spycraft. With Garak’s help, of course. 

The doctor is frantically pulling his jumpsuit up over his torso while outside a series of beeps is audible. Whoever it is is entering their override code. Garak slides carefully from the generator and adjusts the skant down over his hips. He brushes the wrinkles out and tugs the hem down at the back so his tail is appropriately covered. It takes a matter of seconds for Garak to be decent. Meanwhile the doctor has got as far as jamming one arm halfway into its sleeve. The other sleeve, pulled inside-out in Bashir's earlier haste, hangs limply. 

Outside, the computer makes an annoyed bleep of negation. Thank the guls, the interloper has entered the wrong code. A muttered curse in Bajoran tells them it’s Nurse Jabara, and then the beeping resumes, a little slower and more cautiously, as she tries again. Garak uses the reprieve and his professional skills to help the doctor into his uniform, for which the doctor grants him a grateful look. His eyes are so sheepish and soulful that it’s all Garak can do not to kiss the man on the nose as he does up the jumpsuit’s front zip. Instead he brushes out the creases in the chest and shoulders of Bashir’s uniform. As he does so, he feels the downward lurch of the doctor’s human... _goo_ within him. He clenches, but to no avail, and Bashir’s warm liquid — why must humans produce _so much?_ — makes its appearance. He supposes he could be thankful it’s been caught in his briefs and isn’t dripping down his leg (yet), but he is not.

But there is nothing to be done about it now, aside from move very, very gingerly until he is able to rectify the situation. What's happening on the other side of the door is the far more pressing issue. The annoyed computer rejects Jabara’s code a second time, and Garak has the opportunity to pass the doctor his PADD. Inventory, that’s their cover story, and it’ll have to be good enough. They exchange glances and wait.

‘Third time’s the charm’ does not appear to be a Bajoran belief. Jabara does not try again. She grumbles to herself, and the sound of her footsteps retreating may be one of the sweetest sounds Garak’s heard all day. The sweetest non-Bashir generated sound, at least. 

“She’ll be back, Garak. She's just gone to check her code,” says the doctor. He’s nervously fiddling with his PADD, jiggling it loosely in his hand.

“Agreed.” Garak gently stills Bashir’s nervous fidgeting by placing a hand on his wrist. “And I think it’s better if I leave first.” It’s a calculated risk. Of course they can’t leave together, and there’s the chance Jabara will come back before both of them get out. Bashir being in the supply room is much less suspicious, but he’s nervous and jumpy right now, whereas smooth cover stories are second nature to Garak. However, Bashir’s semen is threatening to dribble down Garak’s inner thigh. Garak would rather not be caught in the supply room trying to rectify this uncomfortable situation. There is a 'fresher just down the corridor, and hopefully it is vacant.

“Okay. Replimat in five minutes?” 

“Make it ten, Doctor.” It’ll be a hurried lunch, something Garak prefers to avoid, but he really will need the time. The doctor nods and opens the door with a voice command and Garak gives in to the urge to kiss him on the nose (the doctor finds mouth kisses immediately after sex to be overstimulating) and with that, and a quick squeeze of hands, he is off, ambling as gracefully as possible towards the 'fresher.

*

Garak is seven minutes late when he joins the doctor at the Replimat table, demurely crossing his legs at practiced angle he knows Bashir enjoys. Bashir has already procured meals for both of them (they've been engaging in a 'culinary cultural exchange' for the past month; next meal will be Garak's choice), for which Garak is grateful, though he isn’t entirely certain he’ll enjoy his own bowl of the lumpy white liquid. The doctor's helping of same seems to be at least a third gone, however.

“Seafood chowder,” Bashir explains as Garak takes his seat. He passes over a round, flat spoon. “It’s a kind of thick soup. I got yours with extra prawns and mussels since you enjoyed the _spaghetti allo scoglio_ so much last week.” 

“Thank you, my dear.” Garak tries it and despite its unfortunate appearance it isn’t half bad. 

“It’s probably got a bit cold, though. Sorry, Garak.”

“It’s quite all right, Doctor. It’s not your fault I was late.” It is his fault, actually. The doctor’s bodily fluids had rendered Garak’s briefs quite unusable, so Garak had been obliged to replicate a new pair. Luckily he was able to do so in the privacy of his shop, but the whole experience — nearly being caught, walking the Promenade in damp, cold underwear, _wearing hastily-replicated clothing_ — is not one Garak wishes to repeat. Their next illicit rendezvous may have to be a little less illicit. 

Garak wonders if tonight is too early to invite himself into Bashir’s bed. No, that would seem too eager. He'll wait a day or two.

“No...” Bashir’s deep soulful eyes look doubtful. He leans forward. “Is everything okay?” he asks, _sotto voce_.

“Of course, Doctor. I simply needed a little more time than I anticipated to make myself presentable." Garak can't help but smoulder his eyes at the doctor. _For you_ is the unspoken end of his sentence.

The doctor smiles. "Good. And you look _very_ presentable." The smile turns into a leer as Bashir smoulders back. The fervour of a younger lover is not to be underestimated. Bashir looks as if he would be amenable to another round in the supply room already. The thought makes Garak's tail twitch. 

"Why, thank you, my dear." Garak takes a demure spoonful of chowder. It really is nice, if one ignores the appearance. 

"Garak, today got me thinking..."

"Yes?" Is Bashir going to repeat his invitation to join him in his bed tonight? Or perhaps invite himself over to Garak's? If either is the case, Garak will accept. After a rousing argument against, of course. 

"Well. It was a bit...too close for comfort."

"Indeed." 

"We can't have that sort of thing happening again." 

"No, we cannot."

"I have a solution."

"Doctor, I'm all ears." Garak is aware his tail has been switching back and forth in a sort of slow figure-of-eight, and for the second time in less than an hour he imagines Bashir with nothing on save for a grin and a well-placed bedsheet. 

"I was thinking..."

"Yes?" In his mind Garak removes the bedsheet, and his tail loops widely enough to be verging on indecent. This man is truly entrancing. Garak will be powerless to hold out for long against whatever the doctor suggests, he knows it.

"Maybe I could start wearing a skant too. On paperwork days, at least."

Garak is silent. His tail has stilled. In part because he has a mouthful of chowder, in part because his brain has switched over to an image of the doctor in a skant. Short sleeves, hem just managing to cover that delectable tail-less bottom, bare legs all the way up to... Well. And blue undergarments. Not that Garak's ever mentioned it, but blue is an extremely _provocative_ colour to his people. He nearly aspirates his chowder at the thought of what a be-skanted Bashir, bent over and concentrating on a data screen, might look like.

Bashir looks down, blushing into his lunch. Garak has clearly not concealed his reaction as well as he ought. "Just a thought. It would be more, ehm, efficient. You know.” He lowers his voice again. “ _Quicker._ " The look he gives Garak is laden with meaning. It's bewitching. Adorable. As if the words alone don't convey the precise message.

Garak manages to swallow his food in a civilised manner, no doubt due entirely to his Obsidian Order training. Or to Mila's strict drilling in table manners from a very young age. Not that there was much difference between the two, at least in methodology. He pastes on a casual expression that fools neither of them. "I see your point, Doctor."

Bashir's face lights up. "Great! Do you think you could help me choose one, then? There are three different styles, and I wasn't sure which was best. You're so much better at these kinds of things..." The doctor is glowing, and it’s clear he truly has grown to appreciate Garak’s sartorial expertise, despite having very little frame of reference.

"Of course I am, my dear. And I'd be delighted to help." Garak pretends to ponder. Of course he'll have to resign himself to at least two or three more supply room sessions at this point. The doctor must be encouraged in his bold new fashion choice, after all. Although with the doctor also in a skant they _will_ be quicker and thus less risky. And perhaps...do human men enjoy receiving oral stimulation? Only one way to find out, but if the doctor is amenable, Garak might have found a way to solve the problem of mess, too. He's fairly sure he can swallow it all, even the rather excessive amounts the doctor produces.

"Thanks, Garak. I thought you would. So, should I meet you at your shop after my shift?"

The shop has been closed for months, and in any case a visit to Garak's Clothiers is hardly necessary at this stage in the skant-choosing process, but Garak appreciates the game the doctor is playing. The doctor clearly appreciates his own game too, because he's giving Garak what can only be described as a 'filthy grin'. Garak's tail begins twitching anew. Certainly Bashir would be just as breathtaking naked on the purple velvet chaise longue in Garak's back room as laid out on fine linens in any bed. 

"I think I can just about squeeze you in," Garak replies, with a filthy grin of his own, but Bashir's eyes are focussed behind Garak, pupils darting back and forth, following the steady flick of Garak's tail. Garak pauses in his speech to un- and then recross his legs, brushing the doctor's shin lightly with the toe of his boot. _That_ recaptures his attention. "This will, naturally, require an in-depth consultation."

"Naturally." 

"Naturally." Garak raises a hand to his neck, as if innocently scratching an itch, and slowly pulls the collar of his skant downward along his neck ridge. Just a couple of centimetres, but the doctor seems to appreciate the hint about what he should expect later, going by the spoonful of soup which has stalled halfway from bowl to mouth. "Lucky you, Doctor, to have someone like me to help you with these things."

A plop as half the contents of the spoon fall back into the bowl. The doctor's attention is clearly not on his meal. Could he too be picturing distracting visions?

Garak finishes his 'scratch' and readjusts his collar. "Although, I'm afraid tonight's consultation will be anything but 'quick', my dear. I hope you don't mind. We may even need to work through dinner. So be certain not to waste one morsel of your chowder." Garak's nearly finished his own lunch, and he neatly scoops up the last of it. "No doubt you'll agree that we'll both need the energy."

**Author's Note:**

> And then they banged. Again. (But not without putting a double-folded blanket down on the chaise longue first. By the Ancestors, humans are messy lovers.)
> 
> Here is some lovely art by [subspacecommunication](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nattherat/pseuds/subspacecommunication/works?fandom_id=8474) of [Julian in a skant](https://conceptadecency.tumblr.com/post/623200535187783680/subspacecommunication-star-trek-deep-space).
> 
> And here is [Garak in a Skant](https://batset.tumblr.com/post/190023549943/so-i-saw-this-post-about-what-uniform-garak-would) by [batset](https://batset.tumblr.com), which I believe inspired the_last_dillards to write Skantily Clad (so it's like my fic's grandparent). And also an adorable drawing of [Garak AND Julian in skants](https://batset.tumblr.com/post/190129077878/some-more-garak-joins-starfleet-aus)!
> 
> And if it please you, [Garak in a skant](https://vaiyamagic.tumblr.com/post/113370910748/sequel-to-this-picture-silly-little-story-under) and more [Julian in a skant](https://www.deviantart.com/vaiya/art/Skant-511659580) by [vaiya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaiya/pseuds/vaiya).
> 
> Kudos, comments, and cursed headcanons welcomed and encouraged!


End file.
